


There's Always Something Missed

by John221bsherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, john/sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, John Watson Being an Idiot, John/Sherlock (BBC) - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sad Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:28:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John221bsherlock/pseuds/John221bsherlock
Summary: This was my first attempt at publishing anything.  I've been a silent part of the fandom for years, and I finally admitted to myself that enough was enough and it wouldn't hurt anyone to try at a fic.  It's rushed at the end but I just wanted to post /something/ before work.





	There's Always Something Missed

_There’s always something._

Silence filled the air of Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson was out.  Gone.  Visiting family, her sister, to be precise, for Christmas.  The tenants of 221C had been out of town since the 20th and wouldn’t be returning until after the 1st of the New Year – per the note plastered to their mailbox, with instructions that their mail resume upon their return. 

Of course, there were the cameras in the living room and kitchen, cameras Mycroft insisted were _not_ due to his instruction.  That being said, he was off on _vacation_.  Hiding the truth of his disappearance under the guise of yet another trip to Paris.  Two weeks now, he had been extending trips and vanishing for meetings: returning with a smile that only meant one thing when it came to the Holmes men.  Intimacy.  Sex.  Naturally, Sherlock was the only one to notice the minute changes in his eldest brother’s cologne and suit wear.  Idiots, the lot of them.   

Fingers tapped against the worn material of the armchair, matching the tempo of the clock on the mantle.  _Tap, pointer finger. Tap, middle finger. Tap, ring finger. Tap, pinky.  Repeat._   Eyes flicked to his watch.  December 27th.  Six days.  144 hours, 5 minutes until John returned from his trip with Susie ( _No, Karen, Susie had been the previous woman_ ).  Something about spending Christmas and New Years with a lover, a friend.  Every year, John insisted on visiting Cardiff.  Every year, he turned down the invitation, unable to understand the point of leaving London to celebrate the _same_ holiday in a _different location_.  It made little to no sense.

_“Look, Sherlock, it’s not – Christ,”  John pinched the bridge of his noise, lower back resting against the kitchen table.  “It’s Christmas.  You do nice things on Christmas with people that you actually like.  We live in London, we see London every day.  All I’m asking is that we get out and get some fresh air for a week an-“_

_“Eleven days, John.  Eleven.  Crime does not stop, regardless of what pointless holiday the world has deemed important.  Statistically, Christmas Eve holds the highest rate of burglary and break-ins.”  Sherlock interrupted.  “From Cardiff I would be of no use to the Yard, should they need me.”  The us was implied, though never said._

_“The Yard can **wait** till we get back.  You know what?”  John, always smarter than the average lot, shook his head.  “Fuck it.  If you want to be Scrooge, the be Scrooge.  I’m going, like it or not.”  _

Scrooge.  Eyes flashed down to the worn book on the coffee table.  _A Christmas Carol_. Each word, each line, now memorized and stored away in yet another box dedicated to information that John deemed important enough to roll his eyes over.    _The coldhearted protagonist, a man whom despised Christmas with every fiber of his soul_.  Sherlock scuffed and closed his eyes once more.  Christmas he understood.  He did not despise the idea behind the festivities, he simply did not understand the actions.  Gifts could be given at any time, one need not wait all year for a reason.  Surely John understood – gifts were given weekly; milk, tea, compositions, time of silence, deductions, strolls in the park, objects for work when it was time to replace them but the Good Doctor refused to admit it. 

_John stood at the base of the stairs, suitcase in hand.  “I’ll be back on January 2 nd by noon, alright?  Just- for me- try to not burn down the flat while I’m out.”  His heart twisted.  A joke, yes, but also a warning.  Experiment involving fire ceased the moment a bomb ruined half of Baker street.  “Right, uh – Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”  He turned the knob.  The detective took a step forward, rocking on his knees before stopping.  Eleven days.  264 hours.  He’d done worse.  The sound of a lock clicking shut pulled him back to reality. _

“London is where I belong, John.  Where we belong.”  His baritone voice broke the silence, aimed towards no one in particular.  “I’m tired of leaving, tired of finding new places to enjoy.  We have a life here.” _Yet you insist on leaving, why?_

**[23 December 2018, 8:35PM] We are out of milk. SH**

**[23 December 2018, 9:15PM] You left the blue jumper Harry bought you in the dryer. SH**

**_[10:10PM] Get some yourself, git. JW  
Put it in my room. JW_ **

**[24 December 2018, 02:48AM] Your gift arrived. SH**

**[24 December 2018, 05:12AM] Bored.  Come at once. SH**

**_[06:55AM] Sherlock, Christ, I was sleeping.  You know? Sleep.  Something you should be doing between midnight and seven in the morning.  JW_ **

**[25 December 2018, 07:00AM] Good morning, and Merry Christmas.  SH  
I wrapped your gift.**

**_[07:22AM] Morning.  I thought you didn’t do “idiotic” holidays because they were nothing but “money grabs from cooperate England.” JW_ **

**_[07:25AM] I wrapped yours, too.  Brought it with me, so you wouldn’t go snooping.  JW  
Merry Christmas, Sherlock.  JW_ **

**_[27 December 2018, 11:51AM] You could’ve warned me, you know, that S doesn’t know how to shut up.  I’m ready to cancel this damn vacation early and head home. JW_ **

The weight of the jewelry box felt heavier than it should have.  Inside the silver wrapping paper, a small red box, containing a gold set of cufflinks and a matching tie clip, engraved with the Watson family crest.  John’s last good pair had gone missing during a case.  Likely lost at the bottom of the Thames. 

**[4:20PM] You asked I remain out of your affairs, unless there were looking to cheat on a spouse.  SH**

[ **4:21PM] Good.  Come home at once.  I am lonely. SH**

**_[4:22PM] The Great Sherlock Holmes is admitting he’s lonely? JW  
Teasing. JW_ **

****_[4:24PM] I’m aware, yes. SH_  
It may strike you as odd, but I enjoy your company, Watson.  You reduce the noise in my head and the silence of our flat. SH  
Come home. SH 

**_-No Response-_ **

Silence once again filled the empty spaces, absorbing any hint of life within the flat as the messages stopped arriving.  Of course.  He’d missed something, or said something wrong.  John would tell him, eventually, after giving him enough time to contemplate every action and word done within the past twenty-four hours. 

_Something.  There was always something he missed when it came to John Watson._

_Home.  Come home._

A four-letter word meaning the place where one resides permanently.  Logically, this was their home.  Both he and John lived in Baker Street, neither set on leaving anytime soon.  A four-letter word that John so rarely used.  Instead he called it Baker Street, 221B, the flat.  Anything other than “home.”  And yet- _I’m ready to cancel this damn vacation early and head home._ John thought of Baker Street as home when dealing with women he lost interest in.   Home.  

John.  A four-letter word meaning “he who is gracious.”  A synonym of home, to Sherlock.  Since they first began living together, John had become his home.  London was a place, a favorite of his.   But John was his home, through and through.  _Come home: come back to me._   Of course, while there was always something _he_ missed, that did not mean the public masses were free of missing the truth.  His truth.  Even when he no longer hid the tone of his voice when he said home and John, John and home. 

**_[27 December 2018, 5:01PM] The offer still stands, you know?  Cardiff.  S has been chatting with some bloke for the last hour.  I’ve got the message loud and clear. JW  
Please, don’t say “I told you so.” JW_ **

Eyes flashed wide, fingers flew to his mobile faster than he would like to admit.  Mycroft was going to have a field day with the footage from the week.

**[5:02PM] I will personally pay for your flight home, if you choose to do so.  SH  
And cancel your reservation, money returned. SH**

Wherever John was in Cardiff, he knew a laugh was bubbling from his chest -  a blush from trying to hide his smile.  Inappropriate as his offer was, Sherlock knew what to say and when it say it in order to cheer up his home.

**_[5:22PM] I missed something, didn’t I? JW_ **

**[5:30PM] You usually do, yes. SH**

**_[5:31PM] Sherlock. JW_ **

**[5:32PM] John.  SH**

**_[5:40PM] Forget it. JW_ **

**[5:50PM] Come back to London.  A home is not a home if half of the soul is missing. SH**

****_[7:22PM] Sorry? JW_  
Half its soul?  JW  
Are you – Christ, I missed something big. JW 

**[8:03PM] I booked a flight. SH  
And yes, you may have. SH**

**_[9:22PM] That’s you calling me an “idiot,” isn’t it? JW_ **

**[9:23PM] Perhaps. SH**

**_[9:26PM] Right, well.  If I missed something, then I guess I’ve got to come collect what I missed, eh? JW_ **

**[9:26PM] Yes, that is the idea. SH**

**_[9:30PM] I’ll see you at home, Sherlock.  Do me a favor and try to not burn down the place in the time it takes this puddle jumper and the train to get me there. JW_ **

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat, reading the last message.  The flight booking had been premature, yes.  There was a chance he’d pick to stay, to enjoy the rest of the holiday in Cardiff with an ugly red-haired woman whom John had convinced himself into liking, just in time for the Christmas spirit.  They missed things, the pair of them.  Always.  Clues, cases, dinners, drinks, sleep.  But in the end, missing did not mean lost.

 _There’s always something._ But something can always be caught, something can always be fixed.  There may always be something, but with John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, that -something- is not hard to find.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at publishing anything. I've been a silent part of the fandom for years, and I finally admitted to myself that enough was enough and it wouldn't hurt anyone to try at a fic. It's rushed at the end but I just wanted to post /something/ before work.


End file.
